


When the Wind Is Settled

by shadowsapiens



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Exhaustion, First Kiss, Introspection, M/M, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25584778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsapiens/pseuds/shadowsapiens
Summary: Seteth knows what the long sleep is like. How it can linger for years after you wake, how it blurs the line between dreaming and waking.
Relationships: Male Byleth/Seteth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	When the Wind Is Settled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [curricle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curricle/gifts).



> I was thrilled for the chance to write Seteth/Byleth - thank you for requesting them, curricle <3

Seteth searches all of Garreg Mach before he finds Byleth: sitting on the floor of the chapel, beneath the statues of the saints. He’s leaning against Saint Cichol’s pedestal, and Seteth tries very hard not to think anything of it. With his soft green hair and well-worn cloak, the stone-still lines of his face, he looks far older and less substantial than the new-bright polished statues. 

He’d think Byleth was asleep, except his head tilts up when Seteth’s footsteps near, and his pale green eyes blink open. “Seteth.”

Seteth wonders as always what Byleth sees in him, whether he sees into his soul, as it seems he does. “Don’t let me disturb you.”

But Byleth is already on his feet, eyes wide, followed by that tiny smile. “I was just sitting a moment. The choir practice is nice, but they never sing the same when they know I’m listening. They try too hard.”

Choir practice has been over for at least two hours. The cathedral is quiet now. Even the lost-and-found prince has left to roam other halls. Seteth and Byleth are alone with ancient memories preserved in bronze.

“Perhaps they want to try,” Seteth says, offering his hand, “for you.”

Byleth’s smile widens, just for a moment. He takes Seteth’s hand and allows himself to be pulled to his feet.

Seteth knows what the long sleep is like. How it can linger for years after you wake, how it blurs the line between dreaming and waking. How he feels alone when he is surrounded, and surrounded when he is alone. How only Flayn has been his anchor, and even she can’t keep him from drifting when the current of centuries and dreams is too strong.

How lost and lonely Byleth must feel. Though Jeralt did his best, he couldn’t have prepared Byleth for the strange consequences of his blood.

Seteth resolves to watch him more carefully, and catch him if he falters.

Was Byleth’s schedule always so tightly packed? Or is this new since the war began? Every knight and priest and Kingdom ally has been overworked and restless. Nobody rests enough, and every rest is a moment of quiet to remember that the world is burning. 

But somehow, it bothers Seteth more when it’s _Byleth_ running himself ragged, more than anyone else. Discomfort prickles under his skin when the council meeting ends, but four students—soldiers, now, not students—hang back to ask questions. 

Can they only see the gleaming green eyes, and not the shadows beneath them?

“Excuse me,” Seteth says. He can’t help himself, even if he has to interrupt with far less tact than he prefers. “When you have a moment, Byleth, I had something to discuss in private.”

The students leave without question, though Mercedes is giggling as Annette drags her away. Today’s youths are so peculiar. But Seteth has no time to contemplate that, as Byleth turns towards him. “What did you need, Seteth?”

Seteth is used to strange eyes and strange people. He’s not used to the utter stillness of Byleth’s gaze. Ancient and new, asleep and awake.

“Seteth?” Byleth asks again. His brow furrows, and with that change of expression he’s no longer strange. Just a tired young man carrying a heavy mantle. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course,” Seteth lies. He hasn’t felt this heat in his hands, behind his neck, in hundred years. “I simply had an update on the supply chains...”

It’s a quick matter, and could have been handled in public. But afterwards, he can bid Byleth rest and win a smile in return, just for him.

They’re of a kind, Seteth tells himself. That’s why he’s so interested in him, beyond even what he can attribute to Rhea’s faith in Byleth. He sees himself in him. He sees Rhea and Flayn in him. The lie gets harder and harder to believe, supplanted by this: he sees nothing in Byleth but Byleth himself. A strangely intense man in a world of strangely intense people, who grew up without others of his kind.

Seteth’s heart hurts when he thinks of Byleth waking alone. Darkness below the monastery. Cold stone and stale air. He wonders if Byleth would be happier if they were more than colleagues to each other. More than family. If after a long sleep, before Byleth’s eyes even opened, Seteth could take his hands and guide him back into the world. Seteth could whisper, “You’re safe,” and, “I’m here,” and, “I missed you.”

His imagination fails when he tries to conjure Byleth’s reply.

A single candle burns in the library. Seteth is unsurprised to find Byleth beside it, slumped over the table, his face slack against an open book. In the room of shadows, Byleth is the only light.

Seteth spends too long looking from across the table. He spends too long transfixed by the thin curve of Byleth’s lip, the way his hair crumples against his arm. He spends too long wanting to brush his hair out of the way. To touch his lips. 

At last, he simply extinguishes the candle and replaces it with a lantern. Safer, but Byleth still won’t wake in darkness. And as he leaves, he can’t help thinking he should have done more.

The sky hangs red-gray above, stained with blood and memory, but the garden atop the monastery still grows green. “You’re always around the corner,” Byleth says. He looks up at the sky, except when his gaze darts to the side, where Seteth stands in the doorway. “I thought you were past watching me like this.”

The slightest lilt in his voice tells Seteth he’s joking. The slightest shift to the side of the bench is an invitation, if Seteth will take it. 

Seteth moves forward before he can second-guess himself and sits at the other end of the bench. He keeps a careful six inches between them. “You continue to be the most mysterious man in the monastery,” Seteth replies. 

Byleth laughs at that, and the garden feels even greener. The space between them is suddenly, definitely, not just six inches. Byleth’s hand covers his, carefully, tentatively. “Mysterious,” he says softly. “Here I thought we were getting to know each other better.”

He looks up at Seteth, and his eyes are so wide, so piercing, they hurt to look at. So Seteth does the only thing that makes sense: he rests his free hand on Byleth’s cheek, takes a shallow breath, and kisses him. 

They linger. It’s sweet, like slowly rising from a dream.

When Seteth pulls away, Byleth blinks. Opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Seteth wraps his arm around his shoulders and lets him cuddle close. They sit together, and Seteth watches the sun set as Byleth’s breath steadies and slows.

The sky grows dark as Seteth’s heart grows light. They don’t need words, but Seteth’s lungs tighten, his throat seizes without permission. “I care for you very much,” he whispers.

Byleth doesn’t answer, fast asleep.


End file.
